


Netflix & Tea

by raxilia_running



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Shounen-ai, Unresolved Sexual Tension, all is normal and nothing hurts, or so i thought, they live a normal life and i think it's beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raxilia_running/pseuds/raxilia_running
Summary: “And… more importantly, I’d like to spend some time with you. No homework, no schedules… just the two of us and… I don’t know, something fun to do together… uh?” he had implied, his voice faltering under the weight of a sudden wave of embarrassment.Ishimaru’s reaction had been as sudden as predictable.“Oh. Oooh… well, you have a point… uhm… me too… I’d like to… well, if this is your argument… I think we deserve some… uh… quality time together with this… Netflix, yeah” he had murmured, his face reddening like one of a mountain monkey, to quote Oowada-kun, and his gaze had wandered restlessly over his figure.Then he had taken his hand in a light hold and spoken no more, apparently too embarrassed by the current train of his thoughts.Makoto had returned his warm hold and smiled.Yes, that would have been a truly relaxing weekend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed this. I'm weak and I needed to watch my babies being happy and loved and, and, and...  
> Ok, a couple of notes before you start the reading:  
> 1\. I used Makoto's first name but Ishimaru's family name because calling Ishimaru by his first name sounds strange to me. My quirks are nonsensical, forgive me, pls.  
> 2\. I haven't watched "Stranger Things" yet but I thought it would've been an interesting show for these two; moreover, the plot of the series isn't even relevant to this story, so... I dunno.  
> 3\. I'm confused, writing about Ishimaru and Makoto filled me with positive feelings, they're so CUTE. At first it should've been all fluff and comedy, then UST and angst kicked in, because this leopard can't change her spots. *creis*  
> 4\. I hope you like it; also, THANK YOU, WAIFU, I'll never stop thanking you for all the awesome beta work you make every time. Such patient, much obliged.  
> Ok, end of the notes.

_Sociability_  
_It's hard enough for me_  
_Take me away from this big bad world_  
_And agree to marry me_  
_So we can start over again_  
_**(Coffee & TV | Blur)**_

“Netflix?”.

Ishimaru had let that word linger in the air for a long moment, rolling his tongue around every single letter, as if he were tasting with mistrust an unfamiliar type of wine – not that he had ever drunk alcohol, it would have been _illegal_.

“Yes, Netflix” a resigned Makoto had sighed, before nodding to him.

That had been a risky move: proposing something different from _studying until we will both pass out_ to Kiyotaka Ishimaru was a hard task, on par with travelling around the world in one week on a bike.

“And what about our grades? I don’t want to pressure anyone but…”.

Well, Ishimaru already lived every single day of his life under pressure, so… probably he didn’t want to but he ended up wearing out even people that barely knew him. Neighbours, delivery men, bus drivers, clerks… Every person who dared catch a glimpse of his attentive red eyes ended up feeling a bit… nervous, so to speak.

“… second term has just finished and it would be an opportunity to…”.

“… relax and take it easy?” Makoto had suggested, hoping to scratch at least the surface of his iron will, but Ishimaru had only furrowed his remarkable eyebrows even more.

“I was just saying… to get ahead of our work! Next year we’re going to have to choose the right University, Naegi-kun, so it would be better if we keep on studying to improve our skills!”.

His eyes had sparkled with excitement and Makoto had forced himself to fight back a sudden burst of laughter, because an enthusiastic Ishimaru was always both cute and funny to witness. He had managed to regain his composure, nevertheless, and had briefly touched his arm, before speaking again in a more hushed tone.

“But we’re already ahead, Ishimaru-kun. And I think we both deserve some rest. It’s… important for our health, don’t you think? We’re not robots!” he had insisted and, although Ishimaru’s expression seemed to have remained impassive, Makoto easily spotted some little creases on his face, filled with doubt and questions.

And then he delivered the final blow.

“And… more importantly, I’d like to spend some time with you. No homework, no schedules… just the two of us and… I don’t know, something fun to do together… uh?” he had implied, his voice faltering under the weight of a sudden wave of embarrassment.

Ishimaru’s reaction had been as sudden as predictable.

“Oh. Oooh… well, you have a point… uhm… me too… I’d like to… well, if this is your argument… I think we deserve some… uh… quality time together with this… Netflix, yeah” he had murmured, his face reddening like one of a _mountain monkey_ , to quote Oowada-kun, and his gaze had wandered restlessly over his figure.

Then he had taken his hand in a light hold and spoken no more, apparently too embarrassed by the current train of his thoughts.

Makoto had returned his warm hold and smiled.

Yes, that would have been a truly relaxing weekend.

~

“A splendid afternoon, Naegi-kun, don’t you think?”.

Or not.

Ishimaru was there at five o’ clock, not a minute before, not even a second after the scheduled time. He stood in his doorway with an overly solemn expression and a blue box tightly held against his arm. Makoto couldn’t help but _stare_ : the dusk light bathed his figure with its wintriest hues, making his appearance somewhat more tender. And funny.

He wore his usual beige coat – too severe for his young age – and under it Makoto was positive he was wearing his school uniform, because there were only two types of clothes Ishimaru Kiyotaka had ever included in his wardrobe: then school uniforms and two formal suits. As far as he was concerned, the adjective _casual_ could have only found place in philosophical debates.

“Well, good afternoon to you too, Ishimaru-kun. Please, come in”.

Makoto stepped aside with a resigned expression on his face, knowing all too well Ishimaru would have walked in, mace a bow and then started shouting something both formal and deeply embarrassing.

“I’ve brought you a present. Biscuits. I thought it would have been appropriate to bring something for our tea party instead of improperly bumming food from Naegi-kun’s pantry. And, you know, it seems an adequate gift for a date, after all…”.

Makoto barely had time to close the door, that he found something rectangular and pointy being pressed against his ribs, gently but eagerly. It was the mysterious blue box and, well, those were butter cookies…

“Thank you, Ishimaru-kun” he smiled, mercifully ignoring the way Ishimaru’s voice had lowered on that last sentence. He was about to take the box when their hands met in a brief contact, and it was enough to make his heart skip a beat and Ishimaru’s cheeks turn a very bright shade of red.

It wasn’t the first time they touched; it wasn’t even the deepest contact they’d ever had since they’d started dating. They had done worse (or _better_ ) and it was amazing how something inside them continued to tremble every single time that not even air could separate them.

Makoto uncertainly stared at him, biting his lower lip. For an almost tragic moment it seemed that Ishimaru was leaning towards him with an absorbed look on his face, and he waited. Makoto waited and dared to hold his breath.

“Oh! Good afternoon, Ishimaru-kun!”.

His mother’s voice, like a cold bucket, abruptly ended whatever was or wasn’t happening between the two of them, and Makoto found himself staring dumbfounded at the biscuit box. Ishimaru made a stiff spin and then spouted a proud “A splendid afternoon, Naegi-san. Always a pleasure to meet you!” in an over-enthusiastic tone.

Makoto sighed softly behind his back, while his mother welcomed him with a big, warm smile and Ishimaru suddenly felt his face hot and his eyes watering: all of that affection… it was simply too much, he didn’t deserve such blessing without _working_ to obtain it.

“Oh, you’ve brought biscuits! Thank you!” chuckled Makoto’s mother, noticing what his son was carefully weighing in his hands, and begun to head to the kitchen.

“So… you will need some tea”.

“Oh, please, don’t over-exert yourself, Naegi-san! Please allow me to help, it would be an honour!” Ishimaru solemnly shouted, quickly preceeding the woman in the kitchen. In spite of his innate stiffness, he moved with confidence between the walls of Makoto’s house that greeted him like a second home, like he was _a part of the family_. He consciously ignored the sudden twist of his stomach – too many emotions could have ruined his appetite – and headed straight for the burners.

Makoto was the last one in, and silently begun to put the biscuits on a plate. He let the sweet scent of butter and sugar invade his nostrils and the tearing of plastic wrapping become the backdrop of a by then usual domestic scene: Ishimaru preparing his delicious tea with slow, steady movements and his mother still pretending, after all that time, to be surprised by his more-than-a-best-friend’s display of household skills.

By the time the water was boiling, Ishimaru and his mother were deeply engaged in a conversation about laundry and how much damage bleach would have done if not used with moderation.

Really interesting, indeed.

“Are we ready?” Makoto asked in a quiet murmur, when Ishimaru finally poured the hot water in their cups. He turned his attention back to him, as if suddenly acknowledging his presence in the kitchen, and his hands hesitated while holding the cups over a little tray.

“Lead the way, Naegi-kun” Ishimaru ended up whispering, his voice softening as he picked up the tray. That habit of him kicked in every time he knew they were going to be alone, and Makoto found that mix of anxiety and embarrassment somehow relatable. He was relieved to know they shared the same doubts even after a year and a half of an intimate relationship that definitely wasn’t a friendship anymore.

Ishimaru departed from Makoto’s mother with a solemn greeting and a bunch of apologie for leaving so early, as the other boy started climbing up the stairs. His figure blurred behind the clouds of steam whirling over the two white cups he was carrying, and his shoulders were draped in a crumpled green hoodie. Watching such a close friend wearing his everyday clothing was a deeply intimate gesture for Ishimaru: he felt as if he would have been blessed by the opportunity to peek inside in Makoto’s past life, embroidered in every crease of the fabric of his clothes, that told him a story it had yet to unfold in front of his eyes completely.

As he stepped inside his bedroom, though, he froze for a single instant: that place was filled with Makoto’s scent. It lingered on every object he had touched, and Ishimaru forced himself to stop breathing in like he was in desperate search of air. Moving in places that Makoto was familiar with always had a devastating effect on his nerves: it was so beautiful and yet he felt like a creep for finding so much pleasure in indulging in that kind of thoughts…

“Did you have other ideas about a series to watch?” Makoto asked, while Ishimaru was placing the tray over the nightstand. He was quick and sure in his reply.

“No, I haven’t. I’ll let you do the honours as always, Makoto-sensei!” he uttered with a vaguely empathic tone, because after all those months Ishimaru kept on taking that inside joke too seriously. _This isn’t good_. Makoto was a clean-minded person, after all, but certain words could trigger specific fantasies in his head – he was a teen, after all, too young, too in love, too… full of emotions? – fantasies that unveiled some really embarrassing tendencies he nurtured towards Ishimaru Kiyotaka.

“Sheesh… Anyway, Komaru recommended me…” he started off but then Ishimaru raised… yes, he actually raised his hand and then protested “Oh, how shameful of me! I haven’t even properly greeted her!”.

“Slow down! She’s not here!” Makoto called him back, before he could spring out of the room and search every nook and cranny in order to submit his most solemn greetings to his younger sister.

“She went out with Fukawa-san” he started to explain but, suddenly urged by Ishimaru’s disappointed expression, he continued: “But she will be back for dinner. If you want to stay… well, you can say hello to her and to my dad, too”.

“Oh. Are… are you sure I won’t trouble you?” Ishimaru predictably rebutted, but Makoto shook his head. There was a mix of excitement and hesitation and fear in his widened red eyes. He knew all too well the reasons and didn’t push his offer farther, allowing him enough time to think about it.

“In any case… Komaru-chan recommended me this new show, _Stranger Things_. We were talking about it Wednesday morning,” Makoto swiftly changed the subject, and Ishimaru seemed to regain his composure, because he briefly smiled before nodding at his words.

“Ah, yes, I’ve just made some research about the show… spoiler free, of course!” he added abruptly, noticing Makoto’s green eyes widening in a look of pure horror.

 _Spoilers are evil_ , his more-than-a-friend had repeated to him like a mantra in the first stages of their private “Pop Culture 101” class, and he made a point not to forget it… and still he wanted to be well-prepared before starting to watch a series!

“I’ve collected a considerable amounts of interesting facts about the show and the cast, especially! Did you know that its atmospheres are a direct homage to 80s genre movies?”.

Ah, Ishimaru’s “did-you-know” corner was a special feature and Makoto was, most likely, the only person in the entire fandom to benefit from it, at least to that great extent of contents and sources (yes, Ishimaru quoted sources in real life discussions as he would have affixed notes in a thesis).

“Oh, really?” he still conceded, while browsing his laptop in search of the show’s webpage. Ishimaru’s voice always assumed that vibrant tone, when he was possessed by the holy fire of teaching, and it was somehow really entertaining to listen to him.

It was even an educational moment, but Makoto admitted – although only to himself – that, in small quantities, he could’ve listened to anything coming from Ishimaru’s mouth. He truly admired the passion he put in everything he did, even in the most basic matters; Ishimaru was able to infect him with all of his enthusiasm and he wouldn’t be the one to stop him. Not yet, at least.

“Oh yes, and it’s aesthetically informed by the works of Steven Spielberg, George Lucas and Robert Zemeckis, among the others,” Ishimaru insisted, while Makoto started the first episode. Then he took a blanket he’d left over his desk chair and reached the bed, getting on it and sitting beside Ishimaru.

He draped the blanket over their shoulders, and in that moment of brief and warm contact Ishimaru tensed, trying to cope with the warm shiver that magically muted him in a single instant. Then he forgot his entire line of reasoning and reached for the cups of tea, in order to try and put on a display of great efficiency. All of his efforts, though, dramatically crashed in front of the smile Makoto gave him, when he handed him his cup, still too hot under their digits.

And then there was silence, interrupted only by the theme song playing from the laptop. For a few minutes they tried to follow the show: there were mysteries, a group of too ingenious children and, above all, a lot of strange things. Ishimaru couldn’t deny the fact that the show had a proper title, at least.

He also couldn’t deny the fact that Makoto’s bedroom was one of his favourite places on Earth. It smelled of normalcy and daily routines, and Ishimaru liked that. Everything about Makoto was “normal” in the noblest sense of the word. His family was neither poor nor rich but stable enough to live peacefully. There were warmth and peace inside those walls; Makoto couldn’t possibly start to imagine how it felt to be burdened with a heavy, damned family name.

Yes, Makoto was really lucky, even if he would have never used such term to describe his own life. Ishimaru felt almost out of place, when he thought about it. He had to study and improve himself in order to help his family, yet he couldn’t bring himself to consider the days spent together with Makoto a waste of time.

He needed him, he needed that normal warmth that heated up his heart every single time they hugged, and he followed that thought, slowly surrounding his waist with an arm. He was cautious, waiting for any sign that could have showed Makoto’s discomfort for his bold attempt at sharing physical intimacy. Instead, the boy’s lips curved into a small smile and he didn’t even look back at him before leaning on his shoulder. He was quietly sipping his tea, the sharp tone of the screen backlight reflected in his green eyes and casting surreal shadows all over his face.

Ishimaru couldn’t simply avert his gaze. He knew something was happening on the screen – strange things, to be exact – but he needed to observe the way Makoto drank his tea, in little sips, and stopping from time to time to pick up a biscuit from the plate that was standing between their legs.

They should’ve turned on the lights; the wintry dusk light was turning into a thick darkness, but for some reasons – that weren’t nearly as obscure – it was better that way. It was less… embarrassing, leaning against Makoto, hugging him, stealing a glance at him without feeling judged. It soothed his nerves and, for one instant too long, Ishimaru forgot all of the homework and chores he could’ve done instead of… relaxing together with Makoto, his friend.

His… more than a friend.

Makoto was definitely more than a friend but they still played with words, while sharing hand-holdings, hugs, kisses and even their naked bodies without saying it out loud. They… he should’ve taken his responsibilities, instead he was there, barely touching his waist, and he longed so bad to deepen that contact he felt really ashamed of himself.

He didn’t talk; he pretended to watch the show and, for a while, he succeeded. They made it to the end of the first episode without any incident of the sorts – because Ishimaru truly wanted to share some _quality time_ with Makoto without any hidden agenda in mind.

Then Makoto leaned out to put away the empty plate and, for a moment, his face ended up so near to his lips, Ishimaru didn’t even have to think about it twice. He bent down and kissed him on the forehead, a quick, dry kiss, and Makoto’s cup barely swayed in his other hand. Ishimaru waited, one, two, three, four, five seconds but Makoto didn’t move, Makoto… waited.

He had been waiting since he had closed the door, and there was no one else but them in that dimly-lit bedroom. He had been waiting, because he knew Ishimaru enough not to make any sudden moves; he let Ishimaru crawl at his side and set the appropriate number of steps for their approaches, and that patience always paid him back.

He felt Ishimaru’s lips brush against his skin again, another gentle touch near the ear, then on his cheekbone, then on the tip of his nose. He was swift and kind in those contacts, he restrained himself and let the tension between them grow until it became unbearable. He didn’t do it on purpose, Ishimaru wasn’t that kind of sadist mastermind who loved to play with his partner before finally pleasing them, but he certainly ended up tiring both of them out.

Ishimaru was kissing his neck in the really sensitive spot between his ear and jaw, when he stretched his arm backward and, with a quick glance placed his still half-full cup back on the tray. Only then did he put his warm, trembling hand over his cheek, he caressed him, trying to reassure both of them that nothing wrong could’ve ever happened.

But when his lips lingered a second too long on the corner of his mouth, Makoto couldn’t wait anymore. He turned his face around and, in a move that was both perfect and absolutely not calculated, he met his lips in the precise moment they were brushing against the soft skin of his cheek again.

Ishimaru breathed in and ceased all movements. For a moment, Makoto was afraid he’d dared to much. Then his more-than-a-friend’s middle fingers reached for his chin and, in the blink of an eye, their lips were pressed together in a suppressed kiss, full of anxiety and hunger.

Makoto tasted of the sour scent of his bergamot tea and of the crumbs of the biscuits Ishimaru hadn’t even tried – his stomach was so full of butterflies and thoughts he couldn’t have eaten anything, even if he had wanted to. He kissed him in a series of quick, frustrating kisses, as if he was afraid of breaking him, but then even his legendary endurance capitulated in front of Makoto’s open lips and reddened cheeks.

He stood still, a hand against his warm cheek, and even if their mouths were so desperately pressed against each other, it wasn’t enough. They wanted more, deeper and sooner, it was a fever that was burning their bodies and Ishimaru was sure he would have probably gone crazy at that rate. Makoto was on the verge of dropping his cup of tea, instead; he would’ve done anything to avoid the event of Ishimaru suddenly distancing himself from him.

“Nae… gi… Naegi… We’re kind… distracted… from…” Ishimaru quietly groaned, while trying to do three things at once: freeing Makoto from a cup of tea at risk of crashing on the floor, cooling down before he jumped on him, and staying in his warm embrace in order to catch every single breath from his mouth.

Makoto was quicker than him, and he barely had the time to place the cup back on the tray, before being grabbed by the neck by five impatient fingers that climbed up his short hair and pushed him against his wannabe-boyfriend face. They crashed in an imperfect kiss, mouths open and thick, hot breaths over their cheeks, while Ishimaru’s hesitating moves rapidly became bites over Makoto’s lips and his arms enveloped him in a suffocating hug.

Ishimaru’s tongue brushed lightly against his palate, and Makoto was already squeezing his cheeks in fear of a sudden separation. Ishimaru used to tell him too often, with that embarrassing word choice of his how kissing that way – engaging in a steamy exchange of breaths and saliva and moans – was almost like _making love with Makoto_ , considering he was somehow inside him, even if only with his tongue. At first Makoto had considered that declaration a gross exaggeration but, in that moment, he knew he was utterly right.

Ishimaru wasn’t simply passionate: he poured every ounce of himself in the things he cared about, and kissing him… loving him, wasn’t a task he could dismiss. There were only two things – two people – that meant even more to him than doing his duty: his Brother and Naegi Makoto-kun. Nothing else mattered more than the two pillars that held up his mental sanity.

He kissed Makoto, again and again, and the tender sound their kisses made dominated every other noise in the soft dim light of the bedroom, as if he were going to devour him. The intensity of his own feelings scared him: he was afraid of being too needy, afraid of consuming Makoto under his palms, and yet his body ached at the prospect of being separated from him.

Ishimaru abruptly broke up their kiss, nevertheless, silently trembling against his forehead, and desperately tried to regain at least a bit of his composure. Makoto’s hands were there, over his face, against his shoulders, and helped both of them to normalise the wave of hormones and feelings that swarmed under their sweaty skin. Every iota of their bodies was practically screaming for a deeper contact, but it wasn’t the proper time, Ishimaru kept on repeating to himself.

No, that wasn’t the right problem. He didn’t want to overpower Makoto with his egotistical desires, those basic needs that kicked in every single time they touched a little too much and left them hungry and restless. Luckily, Makoto was always there for him, so accepting and supportive, and Ishimaru didn’t even know how many deities he still had to thank for that magnificent gift.

And he felt guilty, because Makoto deserved more; he deserved his entire dedication, his loyalty, his courage and he was still there, after more than a year, in search of the right words. He loved all of his friends from the bottom of his heart, he could’ve died for them, but what he felt for Makoto was a different kind of affection, something stickier and more confusing, something more compelling and absolute, an obligation that required all of his attention.

He didn’t want to simply stay by his side as a loyal companion. The mere idea of spending every remaining moment of his life at his side, sharing the same habits and the same places, inflamed and scared him. He felt the grave responsibility of sharing an entire life with Makoto, he should’ve been careful of every move in order to balance their necessities and not hurt him, but the final reward seemed more than tempting.

He thought he loved him ,in a romantic and embarrassing way that should’ve made him blurt out _I think I’m in love with you_ , and he was tired of repeating that concept in the safety of his mind, tired of waiting for a right moment that probably didn’t exist. He was in love with Makoto and he wanted him to know, yet he didn’t want to scare him; so sense of responsibility and fear mixed tightly in his throat, while he desperately tried to say that he thought, he really thought that…

“… I am in love with you”.

He didn’t immediately realise it. For a moment, he was convinced that thought had simply resonated in his mind, but then he caught a glimpse of Makoto’s expression and froze against his forehead. He had said it out loud. And Makoto… Makoto was staring at him, speechless.

He’d ruined it.

He’d been simply too rude and now…

“I think I… yeah… me too”.

Makoto’s whisper was a shade in the darkness that surrounded them, like the redness all over his cheek, like his green eyes staring at him under his half-closed lids. Ishimaru couldn’t even believe what he had just heard, it was too beautiful to be real, it was…

“Are you sure?” he uttered, but he already knew the answer. Makoto was too honest for that kind of tricks, it was one of the reasons he could handle his almost brutal candor so well. He knew he couldn’t beat around the bush with Ishimaru, and he was slowly accepting what being with him involved, bit by bit.

He briefly interrupted their eye contact, but only so he could find his hand and intertwine their fingers together in a gentle hold, before staring back at him and nodding.

“I’ve never been this sure in my life.”.

Ishimaru reciprocated his hold and smiled, a strange and trembling smile full of the tears that were already in the corners of his eyes, but Makoto brushed his forehead against his cheek, in a soft attempt to relax him. It worked, and Ishimaru let go of that tiny, stingy feeling that threatened to pierce his heart from side to side, before clinging to him some more.

They stood still under the white and blue blanket, turning their attention back to the laptop screen, but the effort was futile. Their minds were completely filled with the words they had just uttered and with the sweet sound they had made, a sound that was still growing in the bleary atmosphere of the bedroom. They were full of questions and over-complicated sentences, full of anticipation and fear, fear of making a false move and ruining everything in just a second.

“Can I… really stay for dinner?”.

Ishimaru was the one who made the first move, in the most uncertain voice, but he was eager to make up for a long hesitation he thought had been an enormous waste of time. He wasn’t afraid of what he felt for Makoto, of that he was certain.

Makoto silently stared at him. Did his parents know about the two of them? They probably suspected something – especially his mother, there was something _tender_ in her smiles towards Ishimaru – but they hadn’t said anything yet, and he was really grateful for their discretion. They needed their time to understand their relationship better, to not fear how badly they had fallen for one another; moreover, he wasn’t so sure Ishimaru’s parents would have been as supportive, knowing what kind of family situation he had, nor did he want to force him for the sake of coming out together.

They could wait. They had all the time in the world.

“I told you… you’re welcome to stay. Mom and dad will be very happy to have you over for dinner and… you and Komaru haven’t seen each other in a while, uh?”.

Of a thing, Makoto was absolutely certain: he would have always been by his side. And Ishimaru… he would have found a safe haven in his home, Makoto wanted him to know that.

“Oh, you’re right, it would be rude not to wait for her!” Ishimaru replied, while his voice exuded again the usual efficiency he put in each one of his actions. Makoto chuckled and leaned on his shoulder again, letting a relieved whisper escaping his lips.

Some things were happening on the screen and they weren’t exactly sure of the exact sequence of events that had caused them, but it didn’t matter.

The only strange thing in that exact moment was that, in a room so dark the screen light could’ve hurt their eyes, Ishimaru wasn’t getting up to turn on the lights yet. He wanted to stay by Makoto’s side a little more; everything else could wait.


End file.
